


The Captain’s Steward

by poeticjustice22



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 18th Century, Age of Sail, Ambiguous Relationships, Brooding, Canon Divergence - Post-At World's End (Pirates of the Caribbean), Complicated Relationships, Demisexual Character, Developing Friendships, Did I mention James Norrington in uniform?, Disobeying Orders, Emotional Constipation, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Georgian Period, Gunshot Wounds, Historical Inaccuracy, James Norrington Didn't Die, James Norrington needs a hug, M/M, Mystical Creatures, Original Character(s), Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overthinking, POV Alternating, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pirates, Possibly Pre-Slash, Sexual Confusion, Slow Build, Swearing, Tension On Board Ahoy!, The Royal Navy, Violence, a little bit of mutual pining, captain/steward relationship, if you want an expert in nautical history and terminology i’m not it sorry, reckless vs. disciplined relationship dynamics, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticjustice22/pseuds/poeticjustice22
Summary: Young and reckless Christopher ‘Kit’ Owens has known little else than the wide ocean horizon in his short life. Conditioned since a young age to a life of hard work in order to feed a family of eight siblings, and surviving the merciless life as a deckhand through the sheer force of a cunning will and a deft hand at cards, he has now, at the age of twenty-four, run out of luck and money. Heavily indebted in every tavern and with every captain in the Caribbean, hence no ship to board, Kit is at his wits’ end.In his desperation, he uses his very last coins on a game of cards in a local tavern in Port Royal. When he gets into a scuffle, the last person he expects to come to his rescue is Commodore James Norrington. Suddenly, Kit finds himself in Norrington’s employ and in a quite different life debt; one that he is less reluctant to relinquish.It is the beginning of an unexpected friendship with the reticent and complex Commodore. A friendship that strengthens and evolves in the long months at sea, despite Norrington’s persistent reluctance; no less complicated by the appearance of pirates, sea monsters, troublesome crew members, conniving British officials and the ever meddling East India Company.
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t let the cheesy ‘romance novel’ title sway you. (...Or _do_? Whatever floats your boat, pun intended). Though I’ve decided to throw myself head-first into writing queer historical romance (most definitely the intent) while working on all my other stuff without knowing if I’ll be able to update regularly, I’m less eager to throw poor, unaware Norrington into his own realizations right away. He is an emotional mess on the inside so don’t be too caught up in labels alright. I mean, he has been denied anything good in life, so how is he to let anything good happen to him now? And, on top of that, defy the period-typical homophobia and simply ‘come out’? No, siree. Not that easy. Not for our adorably bashful, brooding, upstanding, emotionally repressed, noble, kind, slightly stuck-up in that British-Imperialism-stiff-upper-lip-sort-of-way, perfectly respectable (apart from his rebellious ‘Scruffington’ phase in Dead Man’s Chest, though we love him for it) sea-faring gentleman (who is ever in denial). Maybe bi-curious? At best, he is a budding demisexual. At least, in this fic, he is. Or will be.
> 
> Ugh, I just love the man to pieces, don’t I? So, now, I’m going to Fix-It™ and give him some gentle slooooow burn love in return.
> 
> Courtesy to the original three POTC as well as Black Sails, Master & Commander, Moby Dick, Hornblower, The Terror S1 and every other seafaring adventure that have inspired me. And [this tumblr post](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/post/174155357902), of course. (I have a strange affinity for historical fiction involving 18th and 19th century characters and seafarers – and queering the hell out of them! Who can judge me?)
> 
> PS. This story is supposed to take place in 1732. Canon!James Norrington is presumably 29 years old when he dies in POTC: At World’s End. This makes him 32 in this Fix-It AU. The steward he hires is 24, so there’s nothing underage between the main characters in this fic!

“ _OWENS!_ ”

Kit winced and peered slowly over his shoulder.

 _Great_. Cotton _fucking_ Snyder. The man he owed everything on his body. And a little more. Here with his goons, no less.

_Bloody fucking great._

_Just isn’t your day today, is it?_

Having spent most of his coin already on cards and rum, Kit was out of luck, not to speak of, out of a job. No sensible soul in Port Royal wanted to hire a lowly, indebted deckhand whose gambling reputation, however exaggerated, preceded him. Not even scrubbing sick off the floor of a grubby tavern could it come to!

No one wanted to touch a fellow with such a cursed repute, apparently. Even the racketeers and lowlifes of Port Royal were much too superstitious to even touch that with a barge pole.

In his desperation, Kit had briefly played with the idea of trying his luck in piracy, now that no other option was available, but a recent public hanging of a bunch of notorious pirates; some not much older than his own twenty-four years, had promptly dissuaded him from going into that endeavour.

He might be foolhardy but he wasn’t _that_ foolhardy to risk a rope around his neck. Personally, he could think of no worse fate and the thought itself made the skin around his neck crawl.

No. Then he’d rather drown himself in the bottle or get accidentally killed in a tavern scuffle.

Utterly despondent, Kit had just placed his very last bet on a risky hand of cards with three indeterminable ‘gentlemen’ in the tavern, The Scarlet Horse, and had been weighing out his options for the past hour, eyes flickering between the three hoodlums, carrying his nerves bravely on the outside.

Well, he wasn’t a master-bluffer for nothing. He had made it this far, hadn’t he? Say what you will about his general character, but this much he still had going for himself.

Until he lost, that is.

Bloody fucking stupid he was! The debts just seemed to pile on one another because of his bloody arrogance, didn’t it?

And, now... this. It seemed his wishful thinking of dying in a tavern scuffle would come true sooner rather than later.

He was much too drunk to face any sort of confrontation right now.

Forcing on a smile, nonetheless, Kit faced the notorious bootlegger and his former employer. “Why, Cotton! Er, f-fancy seeing you in these parts! Can I tempt you with a drink?”

Cotton scowled and stalked up-close. “Shut your gob, Owens! I am here to collect what you owe me!”

“Ah – is _that_ why you are here?” Kit deflected, leaning back against the bar counter. “And here I thought you just missed me?” He feigned a pout which was instantly wiped off by Cotton’s meaty paw shooting out and roughly grabbing Kit’s jaw in a vicious clutch. Kit practically swallowed his tongue in pure fright. He knew all too well what those hands could inflict.

“You’ll give me none that now, Owens! You just pay up!”

“Um,” Kit struggled to form words in the clasp of Snyder’s vice-like grip; strong fingers boring into the hollows of his cheeks. “Why don’t we say I pay you once I’ve won another game of cards with these fine gentlemen over here and I’ll –“

Cotton roughly released Kit’s jaw and grabbed hold of his shirt, pulling him close enough for Kit to smell the stench of his whiskey-filled breath and acute body odour, eliciting a series of unpleasant memories from his past dealings with the man. He averted his face.

“Look at me, kid,” Cotton snarled. “I’m here because you _owe_ me and I intend on using _any_ means to get what I’m due.” Icy dread curdled in Kit’s gut at the unmistaken threat and the henchmen behind Cotton sniggered lewdly.

He fidgeted, trying to worm his body away from Cotton’s stronger one which only pressed in more insistently. “Now, now, Snyder,” Kit laughed nervously, eyes flitting desperately around for some exit strategy. “Wouldn’t want to make a spectacle here among these respectable folks, would you now?”

Cotton shot their surroundings an unimpressed leer and Kit swallowed his unconvincing lie. Who was he kidding? Trying to make light of the situation, knowing full well it was futile with a man like Snyder?

A meaty fist connected with Kit’s face and he flew to the ground; the shock of the sudden violence almost superseding the pain blooming across his cheek from where he’d been hit.

Cotton stepped over his crumpled form. “Now, listen, you little maggot! You better cough up this instant or else –!”

Hot defiance and anger surged through Kit and he glared up at his attacker. “What?! You’d do what exactly, huh, Snyder? What could you possibly do to me that you haven’t already inflicted upon me?” He spat the words, blood flying from his lips. “Make my situation any worse than it already is?” A sense of futile desperation swept over him and he laughed mirthlessly in defeat. His vision was beginning to blur from the intense pain on the side of his cheekbone as he stared in contempt at the loathsome bully of a man glaring down at him.

“Hah!” Cotton snorted, without a flicker of pity in his rough features as he crouched before him. “Don’t think you can try and worm your way out of a situation like this with one of your pathetic tricks, Owens. They won’t work on me anymore.”

Kit scowled, feeling the blood trickle down his face. He knew this was a dead-end. There was no way he could dissuade Cotton or ever pay back his insurmountable debt.

 _Oh, well_. If this was to be his end, in this grubby, low-life tavern, and at the hands of Port Royal’s most vile browbeater and criminal, he might as well go down with a smile on his face, knowing he’d pissed Cotton off for good.

And, being reckless and defiant as he was, Kit did the one thing he knew would set the man off. He spat in his ugly mug of a face.

A face which instantly changed from ugly and dislikeable to ugly and dislikeably _hard_ , his beady little eyes blazing with undisguised rage.

“You little SHITE!” Cotton roared, wiping his face and fisted Kit’s tattered shirt front, practically ripping it from his shoulder as he hauled him upwards. Kit winced and swallowed dryly, eyes trailing, as if in slow motion, how Cotton’s other fist raised to strike him out cold.

Probably for good this time.

He closed his eyes and waited for the final blow to come, in what seemed like three painstaking heartbeats before –

“Unhand that boy!”

Kit snapped his head up at the sharp, military command coming from the doorway of the tavern. His eyes widened at the sight of a tall, uniformed naval officer filling its frame in his handsome blue frock coat, powdered wig and tricorne, his steely, impenetrable eyes pinned on Snyder’s crouched form.

Cotton merely tightened his fist in Kit’s shirt, his burly knuckles digging uncomfortably into Kit’s sternum, and snarled in the gentleman’s general direction. “Mind you own bloody business!”

“The sailor you are manhandling is my _steward_ and you are to release him this very instant,” the officer barked in a voice that brooked no argument. Kit gaped. “Furthermore, you are addressing a commanding officer of the British Royal Navy. I demand some respect or I’ll have you court-martialed!”

Snyder snorted and whipped his eyes around, narrowing them in rampant mistrust at the officer’s labels. However, he hesitated. Perhaps some sense trickled into that thick skull of his. The threat of a court martial was nothing to jest about in this day and age, after all, even for lowlifes like Cotton, and he was a man who had much to lose given his many criminal enterprises.

Growling irately, he released Kit; the latter stumbling back onto the dirty floor. He glared briefly at the officer then directed a menacing finger at Kit who flinched backwards.

“Mark my words, you little two-timey snake! I intend to collect my due pay! One day you won’t be so lucky to have your uniformed ‘benefactor’ nearby and I’ll be there!”

Kit paled. No doubt Cotton meant every word.

With that, Snyder huffed and pushed past the officer who deftly stepped out of his way, hard eyes still following the back of the ruffian as he exited the tavern. The two lackeys quickly scurried to catch up with him.

When they had gone and any curious eyes were promptly expelled with a levelled gaze from the officer, the latter finally turned to Kit.

Despite his pain, Kit couldn’t help but shiver slightly under the weight of the serious, incisive gaze directed at him. He realized that the officer could not be much more than thirty years of age, yet his gaze carried a world-weary tinge; as if he had seen a lifetime of ghosts.

“Your name, sailor?”

Kit swallowed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Earlier that day_

* * *

“You blaggard of a man! I won’t stand for this wretched mistreatment of a fellow seaman!”

Further expletives were thrown across the room and a bottle shattered dramatically against the floorboards of the captain’s cabin.

Commodore James Norrington - once presumed dead before being miraculously pulled back from Davy Jones’ Locker three years ago and now reinstated by the ‘merciful’ graces of The British Royal Navy - pinched the bridge of nose with a tired sigh.

It was not in the cards to lose his steward the very day before the HMS Umbria was to depart from Port Royal.

James had no time for this kind of tantrum amongst his crew, much less his personal servant. McGrover might have been an able seaman _once_ , _before_ he had taken to the drink, and James had been reluctant to hire the man in the first place.

He _had_ voiced his misgivings, yet they went overheard.

Perhaps his journey to the sea of the dead and back had hardened his character; he was less inclined to be swayed or be a pushover to the more capricious types crossing his path (i.e. Jack Sparrow; cursed be that bloody pirate!). Yet, unlike aforementioned types, James was also still a gentleman and there was a certain amount of decorum and honour that went with his profession. Deep down, he was disinclined to protest the decisions of the very Admiralty who had restored his good position in the Navy. Gratitude was not so much the word as relief; relief of getting his life back.

 _This_ part of the job, however, he would gladly be relieved of.

Presently, McGrover swayed dangerously as he reached for his pocket watch, his bloodshot eyes flashing with puffed-up contempt.

“I knew you’d bring misfortune to this vessel the minute you were reinstated! But would the Admiralty listen to a ‘lowly’ steward like me? Oh no!” He brought down a fist on the table in front of him and James winced, seeing that it was _his_ writing desk the man was presently making a mess of, papers flying everywhere. “I’ll have you know that I’m going to report this, Norrington! Mark my words! You’ll be out in no time!”

Unfazed, James huffed. He was doubtful the man held _any_ sway in that regard. All McGrover had were ruffled feathers and a lot of empty threats as per usual. And James’ patience in regards to the man’s insults was beginning to run low.

“Indeed, Mr. McGrover. I will be sad to have missed the chance to witness how you will attempt to argue a case from _your_ point of view,” James remarked pointedly, flashing him a sharp smile, and the former steward spluttered inarticulately at the nonchalant barb. “Now, if you do not mind, I have a vessel to prepare and business in town to attend to. Please, allow me to escort you out.” He gestured calmly for the man to exit the cabin and, preferably, disembark the ship for good without making a spectacle, however unlikely that was.

“I’ll say!” McGrover puffed and shot his chin up, walking demonstratively ahead. “What an intolerable treatment!”

James suppressed an eye-roll, adopting a faux-polite, bland tone as he opened the door. “Your departure will be greatly felt, I assure you.” Greatly _indeed_.

Apparently McGrover was not _that_ drunk; he caught the veiled insincerity in James’ words sure enough.

“Cur!” McGrover muttered under his breath as he left and James did not hesitate to close the door firmly behind him.

 _Good riddance_.

Dragging a hand across his face, James went to his writing desk, picked up the discarded papers and sat down, contemplating what to do next. He could not embark on a sixth months long sea journey _without_ a steward. He had no spare crew members to suddenly perform double chores and, frankly, he was less inclined to ask. The job required a certain amount of mutual trust and comfort in such a close working environment. Not that he _didn’t_ trust his crew, and he hadn’t exactly found McGrover’s presence particularly welcome either (hence their fruitless partnership), but he had to find a steward who was comfortable doing the kind of chores demanded as a captain’s steward. Preferably one that was relatively young, resourceful and able-bodied. And preferably this instance.

But where to look? Port Royal offered a variety of ready, opportunistic workmen, for sure, and none he felt entirely comfortable hiring. If only they were in England, he’d be sure where to look for the best seamen possible. In the Caribbean? Not so much. At least not from his experience. However, he knew someone who knew Port Royal better than anyone: The navigator, Pike.

The brawny sailor showed up at James’ door shortly after being sent for, and James relayed his predicament to the man.

Pike stroke his round, stubbled chin. “I see, Sir. I see. Well, I can’t say I’ll miss the old sot; I suspect he depleted _half_ the whiskey stock on board alone last we were at sea,” he barked a rough laugh which James did not share, “but replacing him will be an easy fix, Capt’n. You can hardly do any worse than McGrover, even in Port Royal.” He grinned toothlessly.

James arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Aye, Capt’n. Try the taverns. I’ll personally suggest you go to The Scarlet Horse first. Ask around. They might look a sorry bunch but often sailors come by, looking for work, and to have a drink.”

James let out a huff, not exactly convinced. “And you say I can find capable men there?” He was not about to hire another drunkard.

Pike nodded, undeterred. “Aye, Capt’n. You can. Trust me.”

Sighing, James leaned back into his chair, contemplating what other options he had presently. _None_. And when had Pike ever been wrong before? _Never_. The man had more experience than most sailors in the business. James had never regretted listening to him in the three years Pike had been in his employ.

“Very well, Mr. Pike. I appreciate your advice. I will investigate my options at this... Scarlet Horse, you said?” Pike nodded in confirmation. Still reluctant at the suggestion, James absentmindedly dismissed the navigator. “You may return to your duties.”

“Ta, Capt’n.” Pike smirked as he turned to exit the cabin and James pursed his lips. No doubt it would be the talk of the ship about how the Captain would lower himself to scour Port Royal’s seedy taverns for a steward.

Well, he could do nothing to deter the gossip on board. What he _could_ do was making sure he didn’t hire another McGrover.

Listing the last of his errands in town, he pulled out a key from his inner coat pocket and turned to his desk to unlock one of its drawers. Retrieving its content, pocketing it, he rose and exited the cabin, grabbing his tricorne on his way out. Once above deck, he let his Second in Command and the lieutenants know of his whereabouts and return, gave out some final orders and then disembarked the vessel.

Once ashore, James grimaced slightly at the stench and the sight that met him. It was no secret how he felt about Port Royal and its dubious inhabitants, mostly consisting of pirates, brothel owners and racketeers. Determined, he set out to finish his businesses and return to the ship, preferably with a new steward beside him, as quickly as possible.

It was no hard task finding The Scarlet Horse. Apparently, it was of well-known repute, whether that was of assured or unsettling concern, given the people with whom he had inquired about it seemed to give him the same knowing look as Pike.

Pointed in the right direction by a toothless fisherman, he came upon the unmistakable sign of a red horse in sprint above a squalid building. Hearing gruff voices coming from inside and the sound of scrimmage, James paused outside, inhaled deeply (and briefly regretted it as he inhaled an indelicate mixture of soot, mud and body odour) and stepped inside.

What met him, first thing, was the sight of a particularly unpleasant fellow in midst of manhandling a young man who tried to squirm his way out of the man’s meaty grip. The latter would have none of it, however, and in the next second the lad was on the floor, a nasty cut sprouting along his cheek from where he had been hit.

James watched, his presence still undetected since everyone’s eyes were elsewhere, as the kid stared up at his attacker with unchecked emotion in his surprisingly bright, hazel eyes; shaken, scared and enraged. So clearly beaten by the much stronger man standing above him. A reckless notion crossed his otherwise delicate features, darkening them; resolve burning in his eyes.

Something inside James twisted at the sight. The ruffian was grinning eerily down at him then crouched down, and James felt the instinctive urge to do something before –

Too late. The lad had spit in the man’s face whose gruff features twisted into instant rage. He grabbed hold of the lad’s tattered clothes and raised his fist, about to strike with fatal result, no doubt –

“Unhand that boy!” James found himself demanding from his position in the doorway, every pair of eyes in the tavern snapping towards him.

The ruffian, still poised to strike, simply growled. “Mind you own bloody business!”

James blistered at the uncouth address and decided to change tactics. “The sailor you are manhandling is my _steward_ and you are to release him this very instant. Furthermore, you are addressing a commanding officer of the British Royal Navy. I demand some respect or I’ll have you court-martialed!”

The thug snorted and eyed James’ uniform with distrust. Likely, he realized he was outmatched in this regard because he released his grip on the poor, wide-eyed lad who promptly fell to the floor. Shooting James a brief glare, which James met, unblinking, the man pointed a menacing finger at the boy. “Mark my words, you little two-timey snake! I intend to collect my due pay! One day you won’t be so lucky to have your uniformed ‘benefactor’ nearby and I’ll be there!”

The boy paled considerably. No doubt he had reason to.

The unpleasant fellow turned and stalked towards James who remained undeterred and calm at the oncoming threat. Bullies like him did not frighten him; he had met and seen far worse. And, true enough; the ruffian did not have the guts to confront him, merely intended to push past him.

James deftly stepped aside, never taking his eyes off him. The man scoffed sourly and exited the tavern, with two unseemly characters scurrying quickly behind.

James briefly pondered about what he had just witnessed before leveling his gaze on the tavern folk who had followed the scene with rapt interest. One look from James, however, was enough to dissuade their curiosity any further and they quickly returned to whatever business they had been occupied with. They were _not_ interested in getting involved.

Turning his attention to the lad still sprawled on the floor, gawking up at him, James assessed him.

“Your name, sailor?”


	3. Chapter 3

The lad gulped visibly. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek from where he had been struck. “Owens, Sir. Christopher Owens. I – I’m called Kit,” he stammered forth.

“Indeed?” James responded drolly, not particularly interested in the lad’s epithets.

Owens averted his gaze and lowered his chin, either out of respect to James’ rank or because he was ashamed. Perhaps both.

“You were employed as a deckhand, Mr. Owens?”

“Aye, Sir,” Owens said, with a neat bow of his head. His hair, which was dark-brown, was tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck in the common fashion among young men his age. It appeared naturally curly, but James would wager that Owens went to some effort to comb it into submission.

He appraised him critically.

The young man could hardly be more than twenty years of age. His skin was swarthy but that was a trait shared among most sailors working above deck hours long in the baking sun. By the looks of his physical constitution, he was teetering on the malnourished side but with indication of wiry strength underneath the tattered shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder; his lean physique no doubt honed from years of hard labour onboard various vessels at an early age.

Too much work and not enough food; the typical signs of mistreatment of young deckhands.

James had half the mind to report it to the Admiralty if he was not already aware of what a hopeless case it posed; trying to speak on behalf of the lowest rank among a ship’s crew which mostly consisted of poor boys; _children_ and orphans at best. The Admiralty, like the rest of the British establishment, had no compassion for the lives or rights of destitute youngsters; they only saw cheap labour. So it had been for many decades now. Well, until the social order changed, that is, and it would, James was certain of it, but he feared it would not be in his lifetime.

Until then, the Commodore had to discern for himself how to treat these crew members with whatever measure of mercy he could afford. Which, sadly, was not much, lest the rest of the crew would get a whiff of it, see it as favouritism or sign of a docile captain and become mutinous. He could not risk it. At most, he offered a stoic, detached face of authority to his crew. Just and firm, but not cruel. At least, he tried to spare them the flogging.

The latter thought stuck with him as his eyes swept over the young sailor who struggled to remain composed under his censoring stare. Perhaps he was not unfamiliar with being at the mercy of a superior or, indeed, at the receiving end of a whip.

James observed with a slight wrinkle to his nose that the boy was in great need of a bath; having likely never had one in all his miserable life.

Yet, for all his misgivings, he couldn’t find it in his heart to outright dismiss the lad’s potential. At first glance, he did appear to have his wits about him and no doubt, he knew how to deftly manoeuvre about on a vessel. Secondly... there was something about him; something that seemed to call forth a guiding voice within James, compelling him to help out this evidently unfortunate kid.

“Can you stand, Mr. Owens?”

The sailor instantly scrambled to his feet and Norrington was surprised to see that the lad stood taller than initially believed, given how subjugated he had crouched in the bully’s grip when James first laid eyes on him: only a head shorter than James’ own six feet two.

James’ eyes darted over his appearance and made a show out of being wholly unimpressed by the state of his attire.

“Make yourself presentable to your superiors.” Hazel eyes became wide as saucers (and already sporting one black eye) and Owens hastily pulled his sad excuse of a shirt together at the front. “Very well.” Satisfied that the young man at least could stand without toppling over despite his rather nasty bruise and, no doubt, splitting headache, James continued his authoritative address. “You look strong and able-bodied, Mr. Owens. How would you like to become my steward?”

The sailor’s eyes shot up, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his features. “S-Sir?”

Raising an eyebrow, the latter levelled him with an even look from beneath the brim of his tricorne. “As it so happens I find myself without a steward and in need of assistance. Of course, I employ only the most proficient and loyal seamen in my service, so I would expect nothing less from you, no matter your background. You would have to prove yourself, that is. However, should you disappoint in this endeavour, I shall have no qualms sending you back to whence you came.”

Owens’ throat worked as he stared at him, completely awestruck.

James gave it a few more minutes to sink in before his patience finally ran out. “Well? What will it be? I do not have all day, Mr. Owens. The Umbria sails this afternoon and I have duties ashore to attend to.”

“The – The HMS Umbria?” If the young Owens’ eyes could have gone even bigger, they would have jumped out of their sockets.

The corner of the Commodore’s sharp mouth quirked upwards. “Oh, so you have heard of it?”

“Y-yes!” Owens gasped then quickly composed himself. “Yes, Sir. I have certainly heard of the Umbria. It is a most majestic vessel. People here have talked of nothing else since it came into harbour.”

“Indeed?” James felt a small bout of pride surge within his chest, although he did not let it show, and reflected dryly. “Well, then, in that case, you will be pleased to know you will come in service of its commanding officer, no less.”

Owens gaped, realization dawning in his eyes. “Sir, are you – Commodore James Norrington? _The_ famous Norrington who chased the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow across the Seven Seas?!”

“Indeed. The very same,” James droned. A muscle in his jaw twitched when the awestruck young man briefly forgot his place and stepped closer, wondrous eyes raking his face.

“But I heard – I mean – you were supposed to be _dead_?”

Pursing his lips in mild annoyance (he was not going to be free of his past anytime soon, was he?), James decided to humour him for a bit and looked down his nose at him. “Correct. However, fate willed it otherwise as you can see. Now, if you are quite finished gawking and have made up your mind, I have a vessel awaiting and no time to waste. Firstly, you need to be attended to by a physician.” He gestured briskly to the cut on Owens’ cheek.

Not waiting around for an answer this time and seeing that he could no longer stave off the other inhabitants’ increasing curiosity, James decided his business in the tavern was done, spun on his heel, with great effect, and headed out the tavern.

“ _Wait_! Sir!”

James halted and looked over his shoulder at the breathless boy standing in the doorway; exactly as he had predicted.

“I’m in your debt, ain’t I, Sir?”

James turned half-way towards him, hands behind his back and looking every bit the stately Commodore of His Majesty’s royal vessel. He noticed how Owens swallowed nervously at his deliberate scrutiny, as if his fate depended entirely on James’ decision. “If that is how you choose to look at what happened in there, I do not believe I can sway you otherwise.” At the lad’s brightening features, James became apprehensive. “However, do not get it into your head that I am anything _other_ than your _employer_ and commanding officer, Mr. Owens. And I request your service right this instance.”

“Aye, Sir,” Owens saluted, a relieved smile spreading across his battered face. James felt oddly displaced by the sight; that by the simple favour of employing him, he had done more than words could describe for the young man.

“Hm. Right, well, I simply hope you will not disappoint me too soon,” he mumbled under his breath, though the young man seemed too caught up in his exuberance to have heard the comment. “Now, fetch your belongings and stay close by.” James motioned for him to follow. “First, we see the physician. Then I have several businesses in town that I’d like to conclude before the ship is readied.”

Owens nodded and jumped into action, a bit too eagerly for James’ taste but refrained from commenting on it. Instead he frowned. The sailor didn’t seem to be in any rush to get his belongings and he wondered if the clothes on his body were all that Owens owned.

Schooling his features, James turned around again and proceeded to head into town with his new steward close at his coattails.

The nearest physician he could locate was a Dr. Stephens. Fortuitously, the doctor was at home and had the time and swift efficiency to attend to Owens’ cut. It required no more than a couple of stitches and was not in the risk of leaving any major scarring. Meanwhile, the young Owens gauged the physician’s establishment, which was of modest but respectable means, with unabashed incredulity. Seeing his reaction, James had the brief, disquieting realization that such a triage likely would have cost a deckhand’s monthly salary alone.

He quickly squashed the thought and paid the physician, after which they proceeded into the market place.

Doing his business with routinely swiftness, he once in a while peered over at the young recruit, seeing his face paying rapt attention to every interaction taking place like it was the first time he was seeing it. Apparently, the lad was quite the eager and astute learner.

Still, James’ mind was somewhat distracted by the notion that Owens didn’t seem to own a dime in his life.

And what a life was that indeed?

There was little in this life that James Norrington had not seen. He had fought monsters, pirates and curses. Been rejected, demoted, degraded; lost to his own presumed fate. Battled corrupt officials from the East India Trading Company, toughened sea captains and mutinous crew members. Been at world’s end and back.

Yet, he could not compare his life to a life of abject poverty.

Still, strangely, the years of hardship did not seem to have marked the spirit of the young Owens. True, when James found him in the tavern, the boy had been clinging to life’s edge; everything beaten out of him, and quite literally in the process. Almost... almost as if he’d _welcomed_ it.

James shuddered. He knew that feeling intimately well.

But then, when the lad was offered the steward’s position, it was like a stroke of magic to the his whole countenance; like a light had been lit from within and now shone out of every crevice of his being.

James had known him but an afternoon and he could already see the fire burning brightly in his eyes.

“Sir? _Sir_?”

James realized he had been too lost in thought to pay attention to the current shop attendee’s questions regarding the quantity of gunpowder for the ship. Apparently, young Owens too had noticed his unresponsiveness and was looking at him, puzzled, but with an astute keenness underneath that was far more unsettling to James than being caught in the act of staring.

He quickly pried his eyes away from the lad’s inquisitive face, composing himself and answered the man’s questions promptly; placing the order. Soon they were out of the shop again.

“Fighting sea monsters, are we, Sir?”

James’ sharp gaze pivoted towards the boy, alarm thrumming through his body at the implication. “E-excuse me?”

Owens chuckled good-humouredly. “Well, with that much gunpowder you could blow Port Royal to kingdom come, Sir.” He gestured curiously to the receipt in James’ hand.

So, he was making _light_ of the situation. The Commodore clenched his jaw. “None of your business, Owens.”

“Ah.” The young man’s face fell a bit at the curt dismissal. “Beg your pardon, Sir. Didn’t mean to pry.”

They continued through the street market in oppressed silence, apart from the heckling salesmen and –women fishing for coin. Shunning them away in a gruff manner, James pushed past them. He could sense Owens biting back a grin at this but opted not to respond to it. In turn, he was growing more discontented by the minute.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in employing him?

He did, however, spot the lad eyeing some of the edible items for sale with an unmistakably hungry look. James sighed and gave in. He couldn’t very well let his steward starve on his first day in his employment.

“We have less than an hour before we embark. Let me buy you a meal in the meantime.”

Owens gaze snapped up, blinking owlishly as if he had never been asked that question, much less offered food, in his entire life. The thought once more settled like a stone in James’ gut.

Instead of waiting for an answer, James called back one of the saleswomen who had been carrying a basket with an assortment of food and purchased two loaves of bread, one salt, one sweet, a couple of sausages, a boiled egg, an apple and a chunk of cheese.

The lad wolfed it all down and with such gusto that James had to look away; not out of disgust with the boy but more with himself, his own class and this rotten society that allowed for impoverished souls to go this hungry this long.

James didn’t indulge in alcohol himself this early in the day but seeing Owens eyes light up when he suggested some wine to accompany the food, he purchased a bottle as well.

“I’ve never tasted such wine before, Sir. How sweet it is!” Owens exclaimed, taking another sip from the bottle, savouring the taste. James studiously redirected his gaze and fastened it on some grubby-looking characters arguing over a game of dice on the ground nearby.

His eyes furtively flickered back to the lad, oblivious to his perusal, once again wondering about his particular background, and whether or not he had suffered much at the hands of his superiors in the past. James could see no visible signs marking his skin from where his shirt was hanging loosely and torn around his lithe frame, however that didn’t mean –

 _Hold on_. He frowned in disapproval as he took in the exact state of Owens’ attire which would, by no means, meet the standard of the Navy. It could hardly even be called clothes; more like rags barely held together by their seams. Not to speak of the complete lack of proper _footwear_. Why had he not noticed this sooner?

“I’ll purchase a new set of clothes for you, Mr. Owens. This is wholly unacceptable.” He eyed the ragged attire with a look of distaste to which Owens snapped out of his sated daze from the meal. He blinked and opened his mouth, about to protest, when he looked down himself and stopped his mouth, perhaps seeing that James was right. He blushed and shuffled his feet.

“You really don’t have to do that, Sir. I can surely find someone who can mend this...“ He held up his sorry excuse for a shirt front with an unconvincing mien and James quickly halted him with a gesture of his hand.

“Believe me, Mr. Owens. Not even the King’s tailor would be able to restore whatever original state that garment had. And, in any case, it would not be befitting of a naval man.”

Owens released the cloth and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sure you’re right, Sir.”

“We’ll find you a spare uniform on board that you can borrow, but until then you’ll have to be content with something pre-tailored for your everyday attire. We have no time to order anything tailor-made, I’m afraid.”

Owens waved his hands in front of him. “No need, Sir. It’s more than fine! Honestly! I – I have never owned anything remotely close to proper clothes before.” He scratched his head bashfully and looked away.

James considered his flustered appearance for a moment. “Very well, we will go see a tailor to look for something that might fit you. Then I have one more errand to run before we return to the Umbria.”

The lad’s eyes once more lit up, and he quickly followed behind as James started forward, seeking out the nearest tailor. Luckily they soon found a decent establishment which provided Owens two sets of clothes and shoes, including a jacket and a befitting hat. And all for a manageable prize. Say what you wanted of Port Royal but at least it was affordable.

Exiting the shop, gauging all his new belongings with undiluted incredulity, Owens seemed momentarily lost for words. James could have sworn the lad was close to tears as he swivelled his hazel eyes to James. “I... I don’t know how to thank you for all this, Sir. For hiring me in the first place, the doctor, the food, proper clothes...! How can I possibly begin to thank you?” He entreated, almost desperate.

James swallowed and stared at him. “No need, Mr. Owens.” He readily dismissed any persistent attempts of gratitude. “Really, it is no trouble,” James curtly reminded him, seeing Owens’ imploring eyes peering over at him. “We cannot very well have you fall victim to anything caused by infection, scurvy or pneumonia as soon as we set sail, which likely would have happened had I not stepped in, can we now?”

Owens only looked perturbed, clearly wanting to thank him.

It was a half-hearted excuse for his indulgence with the lad and James knew it. He filed it away as a duty to see to his employee. Yet, no officer or captain splurged on his steward – or a younger man, for that matter. Not like that.

Unless, of course, it was for _quite_ _different_ reasons; reasons not commonly talked about or even mentioned within decent society, although it was a well-known fact that certain gentlemen preferred each other’s company over that of women.

James cleared his throat, praying any tell-tale signs of discomposure went unnoticed.

Not that James held any disapproval of such persuasions or predilections. By principle, he cared very little what others did in their private lives, though he did find the whole frequenting brothels and keeping mistresses rather distasteful. He hardly even pondered upon the fairer sex as much as his male peers evidently did.

In fact, not since Elizabeth (the thought of her pained him momentarily) had he thought about any such things for himself, romantically or otherwise. A ready excuse was that he did not have the time or the patience to form any emotional attachments to any potential partners since his return from Davy Jones’ Locker. Likely, he was a loner by nature and the life of a bachelor suited him just fine, however odd that appeared in the eyes of high society and his own sex, apparently.

He had attended enough tedious charities and balls among the Admiralty’s staff, their wives and widows to know how they viewed his unattached status: With the utmost perplexity and blatant nosiness.

_‘Not married?! Why, a handsome naval officer such as yourself! How could it be? Why have you not found a suitable wife yet?’_

_Indeed_ , he had simmered silently and forced a tight smile upon his features, deflecting each question with monosyllabic effort.

What did it matter to them how he lived his life?

He liked to keep his private affairs out of the public eye as much as possible and _loathed_ these sorts of social functions. Alas, he was duty-bound to attend and make polite conversation, however tedious, each time.

For that very reason, he did not like the thought that anyone should somehow find out that he had paid for Owens’ trip to the physician as well as providing him a meal and clothes, not to speak of a position in his employ.

No doubt certain people had begun to speculate about James’ tight-lipped private life and would see his completely untoward offerings to the lad as bearing some kind of personal meaning or favouritism. Perhaps they would say James was merely a meal ticket for Owens, a poor opportunist, to see his chance to get out of Port Royal.

Likely, James was just being paranoid. He had put his trust in the lad. Quite frankly, he didn’t care if he was just a means to an end for Owens as long as the boy did his job well while in James’ employ. And, he would not want Owens’ repute to be tainted by some ugly rumours either.

Looking askance at the lad, who was sporting the biggest grin imaginable which he likely hadn’t had much reason to sport prior to today, James wondered if Owens would hold his tongue about today’s affairs.

 _All_ of them, preferably.

Speaking of, they finally came to the end of James’ list of errands: An old antique shop.

“Wait outside. This will only take a short while,” James bid.

Owens tore his gaze away from the shop’s front and back to James in question. Blinking, perhaps realizing his curiosity had gotten away with him again, he quickly adopted a serious front before averting his eyes again, and muttering obediently with a small nod. “Aye, Sir.”

Having no time to stand about and ponder his new steward’s odd behaviour, James expelled a sigh of his own and entered the shop. He had more pressing matters to attend to, namely the object which had been lying in his breast pocket this entire afternoon.


End file.
